unanswered; why evil prospered and good was overcome; why in spite
of every effort those difficulties remained difficulties to the
last--how plain it all is now! I see now the everlasting results of
the thoughts, and words, and acts that sped so quickly by. I see the
distinct work of each in shaping my eternity. I see the relation of
grace to glory; why I enjoy the blessed vision of God thus far and no
farther. Where I guided my steps by the light of faith, clung to God in
the darkness, “joined myself to Him and endured”--what fruit of joy for
eternity! Where there was cowardice, self-seeking, above all, mistrust
of God--what loss that can never, never be repaired! Oh, why did I
not realise that I was meant to live by faith during my little life
down there, in order to enjoy the fruits of faith in this real life of
eternity!
_Thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter._ But I
_may_ know now if I pray for light and strength. I may know now
the things that are for my peace. I may have now the spiritual insight,
the _lumen cordium_ which the Holy Spirit gives to all who ask.
Lord Jesus, here really present, make me see now by the light of faith
what I shall see almost directly in the light of eternity; when I look
back on life, and grace, and sacraments, and opportunities, on worldly
aims and worldly honours--from my place in heaven. By the tears You
shed over Jerusalem that knew not the day of her visitation, grant that
I, that all I love, that all men may know in this our day the things
that are for our peace.
Dawn now--the hours of earth’s expectancy,
From the grey heaven enough of light to guide
The wary feet--no more; enough to trace
Against the sky in outline faint and blurred
Fair forms, their fairness shrouded for the nonce:
In every line of grace and symmetry
And tender hue to be revealed, when day
This hazy scene shall flood with living light,
Bathing all things in beauty. Now we know
In part, the noontide comes and _we shall see_.
O restless heart! resenting mystery,
Angry with night, that by Divine decree
Divides with day the task of perfecting
God’s world of souls--fret not against the gloom
That, baffling, humbles thee. Why this reverse,
This wrong defeating right, brave effort crowned
By failure, good with itself at variance,
Thou know’st not now; _now_ the strong trial of faith,
The clinging, blind with tears, unto thy God
In patient trust--_hereafter thou shalt see_.
XXIX.
MY VINEYARD.
Let us see if the vineyard flourish.--_Cant._ vii. 12.
The vivid lightnings of the East that reveal in all the brightness of
day what lay hidden in darkness, have their parallel in the flood of
light flashed at times upon the soul. Without warning, without apparent
cause, it comes--a momentary brightness, but lasting in its effects.
Imagination, mind, heart, all have been steeped in it; henceforth the
truth it has lit up becomes a force to influence our life here and our
eternity hereafter.
Has our responsibility to others been ever thrust upon us in one of
these bursts of light? Have we realised, as it were for the first time,
the influence which in God’s inscrutable designs we have over the
destiny of others; the dread power which wittingly or unwittingly,
for good or for evil, we are ever exercising over those around us; the
account which will be demanded of such a trust?
O God, You have given “to every one of us commandment concerning our
neighbour”.[86] What kind of influence has mine been thus far? At the
sixth, the ninth, the eleventh hour it was said to me: “Go you into
My vineyard”.[87] What has been the result of that call and of that
mission? There has been a corner of that vineyard marked out for me
to tend. Am I labouring in it with earnestness, with self-sacrifice,
with the purity of intention that overcomes difficulties, and survives
disappointment, and is undisturbed by failure, because it looks to You
alone, works not for self but for Your glory? Or am I slumbering at my
post? With what feelings do I hear You say to me: “Let us see if the
vineyard flourish, if the flowers be ready to bring forth fruits”![88]
Is it of me You say: “I passed by the field of the slothful man, and
by the vineyard of the foolish man. And behold it was all filled with
nettles, and thorns had covered the face thereof, and the stone-wall
was broken down”?[89] Must I own in my shame, “My vineyard I have not
kept”?[90]
O Lord of the vineyard, Whose love and trust are shown in this, that
You have called me to labour for what is dearer to You than Your very
life--how have I justified Your trust? Do not punish my slothfulness
by making over to another’s more earnest toil what has been given into
my care. But rather stand by and help me to work according to Your
will, that nothing may perish or suffer loss through fault of mine.
Help me to watch vigilantly the little plot committed to me; to cast
out carefully all noxious weeds; to dig, to prune, to bind up and
strengthen what is weak; “in solicitude not slothful, in spirit fervent
serving the Lord”.[91] Then shall my vineyard flourish and bring forth
fruit to Your glory in due season.
[86] Ecclus. xvii.
[87] Matt. xx.
[88] Cant. vii.
[89] Prov. xxiv.
[90] Cant. i.
[91] Rom. xii.
XXX.
WHERE WE ARE TRUE.
Thou sayest, I am rich, and made wealthy, and have need of nothing:
and knowest not, that thou art wretched, and miserable, and poor, and
blind, and naked.--_Apoc._ iii. 17.
It seems to me, dear Lord, that You can hardly reproach me with this. I
know but too well how deficient I am in humility; how I fire up at even
a hint implying blame, suspicion, mistrust; how reluctantly I own to
those about me that I am in the wrong.
But alone with You, my inward witness, it is otherwise. There is no
difficulty, no reluctance here. Once in the Presence Chamber, the
curtain dropped behind me, the gaze of creatures turned aside, I am
myself, _and true_, without disguise, feint, tricking out of any
sort. I do not trim my speech, or tone down my “Peccavi,” “to make
excuses in sins”.[92] I conceal neither my failings nor my needs. With
the privilege of the creature in presence of the Creator, I lie on my
face before You just as I am, for Your eye to see, Your ear to hearken
to, Your Heart to pity and to bless.
How could there be pretence with You or affectation? I know and feel
that “Thy eyes are upon me,”[93] “beholding the good and the evil”;[94]
that “God Who seeth all”[95] “is the weigher of spirits”.[96] Before
that all-seeing Eye self-delusion, conceit, untruthfulness in every
shape must melt away.
I cannot indeed know my nothingness and sinfulness as they are known
to You. I do not fathom one of the thousand motives I have for
self-abasement in Your sight. But I think my self-knowledge as far
as it goes is true. I am ready to see with You that I am wretched
and miserable and poor and blind and naked. I know and feel with the
most intimate conviction that in my soul are the seeds of every evil
passion; that they will choke the good seed and ruin me unless Your
power represses them; that unless Your Almighty hand checks the weight
of temptation, my enemy must prevail over me; that it is owing to Your
goodness I have not been tempted as others; that of myself I am nothing
but weakness and misery and sin.
How it comes to pass that my self-knowledge does not bear better
fruit; that when occasion requires I am not more ready to own to what
I am thus conscious of, am not more indulgent and compassionate in
my judgment of others--I know not. But I thank You for what You have
given; and ask earnestly for more and stronger light to bring about
conformity between my interior conviction and my exterior words and
actions.
Veni, Pater pauperum,
Veni, Dator munerum,
Veni, Lumen cordium.
[92] Psa. cxl.
[93] Job vii.
[94] Prov. xv.
[95] Ecclus. vii.
[96] Prov. xvi.
XXXI.
IN SILENCE AND IN HOPE.
--_Isa._ xxx. 15.
She came with her crushing memories,
She came with her secret fears,
She brought Him her hidden misery
And her bitter burning tears.
And all alone at that cheerless board
Prepared Him her own sweet feast,
Offering her heart with her spikenard
And the kiss that “never ceased”.
She marvelled when He upbraided
The cruel thoughts of men,
And tears fell fast as He lauded her--
Her, Mary Magdalen.
As she marked how His Heart no token
Of her contrite love had missed,
The love that had given of its best,
Anointed, and washed, and kissed;
And tendered a heart with penitence
Filled to the very brim,
And braved the scorn of a carping crowd
To stake its all on Him.
Absorbed in her loving ministries
She knelt at His Feet apart,
The scandal of every eye save one
That soundeth the secret heart.
She knew that her unforgiven past
Lay open to His ken,
Yet no word of supplication
Spake Mary Magdalen.
Love taught a sublimer pleading,
Elected a better part--
Calm trust in Him Who spurneth not
The humble contrite heart.
From out the fulness of His own
Came plenary release:
“Her many sins are pardoned her:
Arise and go in peace”.
O Christ, Who that poor sinner’s love
So gloriously hast crowned,
That through all time her name with Thine
Shall through the world resound;
Who waitest here the penitent,
All-pitying now as then,
Give me the brave, unfaltering trust
Of Thy dear Magdalen.
XXXII.
GOD’S WORK.
To the Lord was His own work known from the beginning of the
world.--_Acts_ xv. 18.
Were Your work known to us, my God, as it is to You, how well ordered
our minds and hearts, our views, affections, lives would be! How all
things would fall into their proper places--events public and private,
every detail of Your Providence affecting ourselves and others! Our
desires especially, how tranquil, how subordinated they would be! Or,
rather, would there be any desire save for the furtherance of Your work
by the fulfilment of Your will?
But may not this be our disposition now by means of faith? May we not
see in all that happens the action or the permission of God, to Whom
His own work is known?
A child in the midst of a crowd is conscious of nothing but its
immediate surroundings. Crushed and stifled, it can see and feel only
the objects actually touching it. But let the father take it up in his
arms and hold it aloft--what a difference the elevation will make!
I am in a crowd; in the dark, with the narrowest views and interests;
knowing but dimly for what we are come together; finding no meaning
often in what is stirring around me. But should God deign to raise me
to His point of view, what a change would come over me! How differently
I should look on all things! In all that happens I should see the good
pleasure or the permission of His Providence: “reaching from end to end
mightily, and ordering all things sweetly”.[97] This would not dull my
susceptibilities, nor cramp my desires. Far from it! With the widened
prospect interests would multiply on every side. But all things would
be seen in their true light. In all I should recognise the Divine
will unfolding itself in the course of events, and guiding all things,
undeterred by the action of man’s free will, to its own predetermined
ends. In a deadly contest involving my country’s honour and welfare,
my patriotism would run high. But too violent regrets at the reverses
of our arms, too vehement anxiety as to the issue, would be held in
check by my ignorance of God’s designs. Once known by the issue, His
will would be accepted loyally, simply because it was His will. “Thanks
be to God, Who hath given us the victory.”[98] Or--in spite of human
feeling and repugnance--“The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away:
blessed be the name of the Lord”.[99]
So in family trials, the hidden sorrows of the heart, the vicissitudes
of the spiritual life--there would be the habit of looking up into my
Father’s Face to see His meaning in it all; and where I could not see,
learning to bow my head and kiss His hand. “Yea, Father; for so hath
it seemed good in Thy sight.”[100]
Does the Creator ask too much of His little creature when He bids
it submit itself thus to Him? Or is it not rather a marvellous
condescension on His part to invite the fusion of our will with the
Divine, thus associating us with Himself in the work known to Him from
the beginning?
* * * * *
What You want, my God, You shall have, and as cheerfully as I can
give it. To give without cost or pain is not always in my power. You
do not ask this: nay, You accept the cost and pain as proving greater
love. You value above all things the faith that gives in the dark, not
seeing Your open hand, nor the smile which would be its instant reward;
not understanding as yet the joy our fidelity is to Him Who deigns to
realise His eternal designs through the instrumentality of our free
will.
O God, let not mine be wanting! Take all I have, take it at any cost.
I make You welcome to all. My reward shall be to kneel at Your feet one
day, and follow Your finger, showing how, here in brightness, here in
shade, Your work was entrusted to me, and--my God, what joy! I have not
disappointed You.
[97] Wisd. viii.
[98] 1 Cor. xv.
[99] Job i.
[100] Matt. xi.
XXXIII.
A STRONG CRY.
They rebuked him, that he should hold his peace. But he cried out much
more: “Son of David, have mercy on me”.--_Luke_ xviii. 39.
There are moments when we fling ourselves before the Tabernacle with a
desire too vehement for words. These translate our thoughts and needs
up to a certain point. Beyond that, we must betake ourselves to the cry
of the heart.
What a relief to know that that cry passes instantly into the presence
of Him Who made us, and is welcomed there. Nay, it has not even a
presence-chamber to seek, for “He is not far from any one of us”.[101]
“His ear lies ever on our lips.” And this is yet too far. As the sponge
in mid-ocean so are we borne up, environed, penetrated, saturated with
Him. “In Him we live and move and have our being.”[102] This is He to
Whom we cry. Nor need we even cry. For “all things are naked and open
to the eyes of Him to Whom our speech is”.[103] Our God is nigh unto
us; He is within us; more present to us than we are to ourselves. He
knows the need that casts us on our face before Him. He saw our trouble
before it took shape in our soul. He knows each thrill of pain, and the
agony of helplessness, and the fear that holds us as in a vice. All
this He knows. And He is not displeased with the passionate earnestness
of our cry for help. Job was blameless before God when his misery
forced from him bold words of expostulation. Jacob was blessed for
being strong against God. Our Almighty Father loves to be overcome by
His children. He is willing to have His gifts wrested from Him by the
intensity of prayer. Nor will He have such prayer to be disconcerted or
turned aside by the evidence of its untimeliness. No, not even when He
ignores or denies it. He loves the trust that catches up the rebuff and
flings it back, a passionate plea for mercy:--
“It is not good to take the children’s bread and to cast it to the
dogs.”[104]
“Yea, Lord; for the whelps also eat of the crumbs that fall from the
table of their masters.”
Oh, that I had this strength of purpose, this trust that sweeps all
before it! Here on the altar I have my model in prayer--Him “Who
in the days of His flesh with a strong cry offered up prayers and
supplications[105]: Abba, Father, all things are possible to Thee,
remove this chalice from me, but not what I will, but what Thou
wilt.”[106] “And being in an agony, He prayed the longer.”[107] “And He
prayed the third time, saying the self same word.”[108]
* * * * *
Our prayer can never be too urgent, too persistent, if only we
kneel by Your side and follow Your lead, O Lord. We may return again
and again upon the same plea: _Abba, Pater, omnia Tibi possibilia
sunt._ All things, all things are possible to Thee; take this
chalice from me. Yet--for Thou knowest best, and I am shortsighted and
self-seeking, and know not the things that are for my peace--_not my
will, but Thine be done_. Let that will be done which in a little
while, when I look down upon this trial from the unclouded brightness
of my place in heaven, I shall joyfully own to have been for the best,
better a thousand times than anything I could have devised. “Father,
if Thou wilt, remove this chalice from me. But if this chalice may not
pass away, but I must drink it, Thy will be done.”
[101] Acts xvii.
[102] Acts xvii.
[103] Heb. iv.
[104] Mark vii.
[105] Heb. v.
[106] Mark xiv.
[107] Luke xxii.
[108] Matt. xxvi.
XXXIV.
“BE READY!”
(_A visit for the First Friday of the month._)
“_Be ready!_” Your word of warning, Lord, and my one desire. And
so I come to You to get ready.
I shall be too weak and suffering on my bed of death, too appalled by
the sight of my past life to be able to do much by way of preparation
for the Last Sacraments. Yet I shall need all their grace, and I must
bring to them at least the necessary dispositions. Take the care of
all upon Yourself. See Yourself to my dispositions. Look upon all as a
trust committed to You long ago, committed to You again and again with
the more self-abandonment as the time and circumstances of my last hour
are absolutely unknown to me. Let me find out in that hour how well it
is to have hoped in the Lord. Let me find You, my Lord, in death equal
to Yourself--to all I have found You in life.
And when the hour for Sacraments has passed; when the Church has
stretched her hand to the utmost to hold me to the last, up to the very
confines of that world where her jurisdiction stops; when my soul is
passing beyond the reach of that hand which has stayed me up till then,
and been help and healing all my life through--then, O my Saviour, do
for me immediately, by Yourself, what You have done for me through
Your Church. Hear Yourself my last confession made straight to Your
Heart. Hear my last avowal “of my so many sins”; of those for which I
have sorrowed most bitterly, which have been brought oftenest under
the absolving hand of Your priest. When my last words in this world
are said; when my eyes are closed to the crucifix, and my hands can
grasp the rosary no longer; when my ears are shut to all the sounds
of earth, and all things are sinking round me--then let me feel You
near. Inspire Yourself my last cry for mercy. Sweep away the clouds
that will gather thick and fast before the eyes of my soul, seeking to
hide that mercy from me. Let Your hand hold me. Let Your arm be round
me when all else is falling away. You have passed, O Lord, through
the agony of death: be with me in my agony. All the nameless terrors
of that hour are known to You. All the dangers that await me then are
clear to You here in the tabernacle--the weakness, the weariness, the
pains of spirit, and of sense, the temptations kept for the last, the
loneliness, the unsuspected snares, the lack of human help. O human
Heart, be my secure refuge in that awful hour. I call upon You now to
fulfil in my favour then the promise to those devoted to Your sacred
Heart: “I will be their assured refuge in life and more especially at
death.”
Recordare, Jesu pie,
Quod sum causa Tuae viae
Ne me perdas illa die.
Quaerens me sedisti lassus,
Redemisti crucem passus:
Tantus labor non sit cassus.
Recollect, O love divine,
’Twas for this lost sheep of Thine
Thou Thy glory didst resign.
Sattest weary seeking me,
Suff’redst upon the tree:
Let not vain Thy labour be.
XXXV.
“DOMINE, ECCE QUEM AMAS INFIRMATUR.”
--_John_ xi. 3.
How many Bethanies, Lord Jesus, have there been in the world since the
day You stood with Martha and Mary by the grave of Lazarus! How many
there are at this hour! And each with all its pain is known to Your
pitying Heart. Every detail known--the fear, the anxiety, the weary yet
unwearied prayer, the long, long waiting for Your coming; the hope that
rises and falls and clings the faster for its less foothold to Your
promises, Your mercy, Your dear human Heart. You know it all. You have
seen all, heard all for years. And still You wait, just as You waited
beyond the Jordan whilst the sisters wept beside their brother’s bed,
beside his grave.
“Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister Mary, and Lazarus. When He had
heard therefore that he was sick, He still remained in the same place
two days.”[109] Why, Lord, why--with Your heart so tender and Your
arm so strong, and danger near, and time short, and those You love so
fearful and so sad? Why did you still remain, O Lord?
Truly Your thoughts are not as our thoughts, nor Your ways as ours. Our
love stands sentry round its dear ones, to ward off pain or sorrow:
“Far be it from Thee, Lord, this shall not be unto Thee”.[110] Your
love, seeking rather to sanctify than to spare, assigns to sorrow a
definite work in behalf of Your beloved. “Whom the Lord loveth, He
chastiseth, and He scourgeth every son whom He receiveth.”[111] “Now
Jesus loved Martha, and Mary, and Lazarus. When He had heard therefore
that he was sick, He still remained in the same place two days.”
“Our Lord Himself was perfected by His passion.”[112] And in that
passion it was not the nails which tore the flesh, but the anguish
which rent the spirit, that drew forth His bitter cry. It was the
passion of His Heart that was the hardest. It is by the crucifixion of
the heart that Christ is perfected in us. Therefore He stays away and
leaves us to suffering harder far to bear than physical pain. We cry
out. We send our messages to Him. And He does not come. “My God, My
God, why hast Thou forsaken me!” He hears and does not come. The echo
of His own cry of desolation moves His Heart. And still He does not
come. It is because Jesus loves that He does violence to His heart and
lets the cross do for His friends what it alone can do. This is His way
of showing love. He expects us to understand it.
In the cross, as in the sacred mystery of the altar, His love puts on
strange disguises. But puts them on so regularly, so frankly, that
losing by this time their power of disguise, they ought to reveal
instead of hiding Him.
We must be patient and wait. The time of His coming, with its ways and
means, we can leave to His wisdom and His love. Our work is to send
urgently and perseveringly the message whose trust vanquished His Heart
at last and made Him say, “_Let us go to him_”.
* * * * *
“_Lord, behold, he whom Thou lovest is sick._” Before a thousand
tabernacles that cry is rising. No prayer, but pleading more potent
than any prayer. Its perseverance is its power. Can it but hold out,
ignore neglect, support delay, it is sure to hear in God’s own time:
“Thy brother shall rise again.... Lazarus, come forth.”
Listen, Lord Jesus, to that cry. By the pity it woke in Your sacred
Heart--listen! By the tears You shed with the weeping sisters--listen!
Not for one Lazarus only, but for each and every one throughout the
world, do we entreat You: _Domine, ecce quem amas infirmatur!_
If a miracle is needed, we ask it with confidence. Is there one
You would work more gladly? O Lord, make haste to help us. To-day,
to-day--to-morrow, perhaps, it will be too late. _Ecce quem amas
infirmatur!_
[109] John xi.
[110] Matt. xvi.
[111] Heb. xii.
[112] Heb. ii.
XXXVI.
AFTER A DEATH.
And his disciples came and took the body, and buried it, and came and
told Jesus.--_Matt._ xiv. 12.
Poor disciples! They had lost their master. Life lay a blank before
them; all its meaning gone, all its purpose changed. The support on
which they had leaned was taken away--what was to become of them?
Poor disciples indeed--yet happy too. For the hand that dealt the blow
held the remedy. It led them to Jesus. What does that mean but that all
they had lost was made up to them a thousandfold?
They took the body, and buried it, _and came and told Jesus_. We
can see Him receiving the forlorn little band. We can hear His words
of tender pity and comfort as He drew them out and got from them
all their troubled tale. We can feel the relief it was to tell Him
all; feel the peace that stole into their hearts as He spoke to them
of their master, and gently won them from their grief, and drew them
to Himself. They yielded to the divine attraction of that Eye and
that Voice, to the irresistible sympathy of that Heart, to the grace
that spoke to their own hearts. And thus that bitter loss proved the
crowning grace of their lives, the cause of their eternal joy--because
they let it lead them to the feet of Christ--because _they came and
told Jesus_.